


Sting Like A Bee

by fuchs



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - High School, Everyone Is Alive, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Flail-y Stiles, Getting Together, M/M, Nerd Stiles Stilinski, POV Stiles, Popular Derek Hale, Secretly Smitten Derek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-26 04:03:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2637281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuchs/pseuds/fuchs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is <em>dead</em>. Dead meat. Dead man walking. Deadmau5. Stiles is so far gone that he’s practically <em>beyond</em> dead. He’s a zombie, or a vampire, or a draugr, or some other such creature of the night. Stiles is… Stiles is fast losing track of this analogy to be quite honest. The crux of the matter is that Stiles is screwed. Stiles is <em>fucked</em>. And not in the way that he would like to be fucked because, yep, he’s still a virgin. And he’s about to <em>die</em> a virgin because <em>he just punched Derek Hale in the face.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by a tumblr prompt that i have since lost and cannot for the life of me find again. and this is my first foray into the teen wolf fandom so be gentle with me.

Stiles Stilinski wants it known that he is not a nerd, okay, no matter what Jackson fucking Whittemore says.

Yes, he’s taking all AP classes and has the second highest GPA in the school, but that’s because he’s _smart_. Brilliance does not always equal nerdiness. Just take a look at Lydia Martin. Intelligence is sexy.

And yes, he wears graphic tees and baggy plaid like they’re the only things in his closet (they are the only things in his closet), but that’s because it’s his _signature look_. Dressing differently doesn’t mean he’s unfashionable. Just ask Isaac Lahey and his plethora of seasonal scarves.

And alright, he might be preternaturally clumsy and the worst lacrosse player to ever roam the earth, but that’s just because he’s got too much going on in his head to worry about what his limbs are doing. A lack of athletic ability is not synonymous with nerditude. Scott can barely run ten feet without collapsing a lung, but he’s not uncool.

And maybe, maybe he only has two friends. And maybe that grand total includes his best friend’s girlfriend, which still totally counts because Allison herself called Stiles her friend last week. But that just makes him exclusive, not lame. Take Derek Hale for example, dudes got three real friends (only one more than Stiles, ha!) and he’s one of the most popular kids in school.

So these things alone do not a nerd make!

Mix all of these things together, add in a healthy dose of comic book appreciation and a soft spot for MMORPGs and…well, _objectively_ , Stiles might possibly see where Jackson is coming from. But if Stiles has learnt at least one major life lesson (and really, by the age of seventeen he probably should’ve learnt more) it’s that you are what you let yourself become. And Stiles point-blank _refuses_ to be a nerd. Liking the things he likes and wearing the clothes he wears doesn’t make him anything other than who he is. Which is not a nerd.

Unfortunately, although Stiles is mature enough to disregard the social constructs of the high school hierarchy, it seems his peers are a lot further behind than he is on the path to self-actualization. Basically, what that means is that although Stiles _is not_ a nerd, he still avoids jocks like the plague. That’s just self-preservation.

However, par for the course with Stiles’ luck, there must come a day in which his sense of self-preservation fails him. This day just so happens to coincide with the day that his beloved Jeep also fails him.

Stiles is sitting in the drivers seat, keys in one hand, coffee in the other, looking like an over-inflated pufferfish with two pop tarts in his mouth, when he starts the engine and is greeted with the sound of a dying pterodactyl. Now, either there’s one poor dinosaur that’s epically late to their own funeral, or the Jeep just went kaput.

Because this is Stiles, and he’d be genuinely thrilled to see a real-life dinosaur, the universe sees fit to lump him with his least preferred option.

“Oh, come on!” Stiles groans. Except that given the aforementioned puffer-cheeks it ends up sounding more like, “ohmhumhon!”

Stiles chews furiously as he tries the ignition again and this time it sounds like a pterodactyl’s last pathetic whimper before it leaves the world for good. He gulps down his mouthful, sets his coffee in the cup holder, and places both hands on the dashboard, rubbing soothing circles into the plastic.

“Baby, please,” he murmurs. “I know, okay? I know. I don’t treat you right. I never change your oil and I drop curly fries down the sides of your seats and leaving you out in the rain doesn’t count as a wash no matter how much I tell myself it does. You deserve a man who knows how to take care of you. You deserve someone better than me.” Stiles rests his forehead against the steering wheel and sighs through his nose. “But baby, I need you. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I’m begging you baby, please. _Please_ don’t leave me like this.”

Stiles dips his head, presses a kiss onto the horn, and turns the keys.

Nothing happens.

“Goddamn it!”

Stiles grabs his backpack, opens his door, and spills back onto the driveway to contemplate his options. With his dad already gone to work, he doesn’t really have that many options to contemplate. He briefly considers calling Scott and asking for a lift on the back of his dirt bike, but then Stiles remembers that he doesn’t actually have a death wish and enjoys leaving his skin attached to his body. So, fresh out of other ideas, he opens up the garage to hunt for his old bicycle.

Three spiders, some manly squealing, and not a small amount of wobbling later, Stiles is off and rolling towards school. For the first ten minutes it’s nice; the breeze ruffling his hair, the early morning dew sparkling in the sun, the sound of the world rushing past his ears. Stiles feels energized and alive and wonders to himself why he ever stopped riding to school in the first place.

But then he inhales a bug. And rides through a puddle. And realizes that Beacon Hills High School is located at the opposite freaking edge of town and his thighs are already burning enough to melt right off his skeleton.

Stiles is made up entirely of sarcasm and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, okay, he is not designed to maintain this level of exercise. He’s not designed to maintain _any_ level of exercise. The most agile parts of his body are his fingers and that is for a reason. A gaming reason. Also, and probably more importantly, for a Happy Stiles Alone Time reason.

By the time he makes it to school Stiles is hot and sweaty and ready for a nap. After he finally convinces one of his legs to lift high enough to allow him to dismount, he finds that his knees are shaking. Walking through the halls, he feels more like Bambi than ever before. And that is a feat in and of itself. Eventually, Stiles makes it to his locker and collapses against it, trying his very hardest not to die.

God, he is so unfit.

Out of nowhere a hand claps him on the shoulder and Stiles, too weak to carry on, goes sliding sideways, his face squeaking along the metal of the lockers. Two more hands grab hold of his biceps and stop him before he can slither all the way to the floor.

“Dude, Stiles! Are you okay?”

He turns around in his saviors’ grasp to find both Scott and Allison frowning at him in concern. Allison, bless her sweet soul, goes so far as to put her hand up to his forehead, although whether she’s checking for a temperature or for any new bumps Stiles isn’t quite sure. Honestly, it’s more likely to be the latter rather than the former when it comes to him.

“I’m fine,” he assures them, re-balancing on his own two feet. “Just exhausted. And I’ve probably got low blood sugar too. Pop tarts are a really high GI food, they shouldn’t be relied upon to give adequate fuel for heavy physical exertion. I wonder if Coach Finstock knows this? You’d assume so, being a coach and all, but he’s kind of a horrible coach when you really think about it, cares more about whether or not we win than if his players come of the field in one piece. Also he steals all his motivational speeches from great 90s movies, like he thinks we won’t notice, and I’m still waiting for the _Mighty Ducks_ speech because that is one I can see myself actually getting behind. But it’s probably a good thing that he does plagiarize the shit out of everything, because if he didn’t he’d probably just babble on about cream cheese and that’s super confusing because I still haven’t figured out the link from dairy foods to lacrosse.” Stiles pauses to take a deep breath. “You know what, guys? I am feeling kind of woozy now that you mention it.”

His two friends stare at him in stunned silence for a moment before Allison leaps into action and fishes an apple from out of her bag.

“You are an angel, Allison Argent, a godsend straight from heaven,” Stiles says as he takes the apple and bites into it gratefully. He chews for a minute. “I’m serious. Why are you with Scott?”

“Dude!” Scott punches him in the arm and this time he only stumbles slightly. And that’s basically normal anyway.

Allison giggles but presses a kiss onto Scott’s cheek nonetheless. Scott grins dopily and forgets that Stiles said anything. He might even forget that Stiles exists at all.

Stiles clears his throat, loudly and obnoxiously, because although he is used to high school couples enthusiastically making out against his locker, he’d prefer it if Scott and Allison refrained. He’d be super grateful if his only two friends could not alienate him when he’s just trying to get to his Econ textbook.

Scott tunes back in from wherever he was (lost in Allison’s silky soft hair, drowning in Allison’s hot chocolate eyes, stuck halfway up Allison’s butt, take your pick) and frowns in concern at Stiles. He looks more like a disgruntled puppy than anything else, but that’s a secret that Stiles, Allison, and Melissa McCall will take to their graves. (They bond over Scott’s stupid, loveable face. They have a WhatsApp group and everything.)

“Why are you exhausted and fainting before first period anyway?” Scott asks.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Who said anything about fainting? There was no fainting in this hallway, no sir!” Stiles protests, hands flailing and half-eaten apple hanging from his mouth.

“I don’t know, man,” Scott replies, smirking, because puppies can be assholes too. “It definitely looked like fainting from where I was standing. What with the swooning and the general trajectory towards the floor.”

“Stiles Stilinski does not _swoon_ ,” Stiles hisses. “And since when do you use big words like ‘trajectory’ anyway?”

“Hey.” Scott pouts.

Stiles rolls his eyes and kicks Scott’s ankle in gentle apology. Scott grins and flicks Stiles’ ear in forgiveness, because that is the way that Scott and Stiles work.

Allison watches on completely dumbfounded.

“Seriously, though, why are you face-planting into cold metal this early in the morning? That usually doesn’t happen until at least after Chemistry.”

Stiles sighs despairingly and looks at Scott with big, mournful eyes. “I’m having some problems with my baby.”

“Wait, _what?_ ” Allison squeals, startling everyone within a five-foot radius and attracting the attention of half the corridor.

“He means the Jeep,” Scott intones and Allison makes an ‘oooh’ face, nodding as if that makes so much more sense. Which, excuse the fuck out of you, Allison Argent, Stiles could so totally have a significant other. That level of incredulity in reaction to Stiles’ ambiguous use of the word ‘baby’ is completely unwarranted.

“I take back everything nice I ever said about you,” Stiles huffs, turning and lobbing his apple core at a nearby trashcan.

He misses by about two feet. Coincidentally, he also manages to hit two feet and the girl attached to those brand-spanking-new-looking sneakers shoots him a venomous glare.

Stiles turns back around. Quickly.

Allison is dimpling sheepishly at him. “Sorry,” she says. Stiles doesn’t buy it for a second. He rolls his eyes fondly at her before opening his locker and rummaging around, trying to find a pen.

“So anyway, what happened with the Jeep?” Scott asks, moving to lean against the locker beside Stiles’, one arm curled around Allison’s shoulders while she leans into his side. And god, Stiles hates it how they can be so hideously clichéd in the most adorable way imaginable. It shouldn’t be physically possible outside of vapid high school rom-coms and awful MTV teen dramas, and yet here they are, ScottandAllsion. All that’s missing is a letterman jacket.

“Oh my _God_ , dude,” Stiles moans, his voice echoing from where his entire upper body is shoved all the way inside his locker, still searching for a pen. “I think it’s finally happened. I think my baby has finally gone to the big junkyard in the sky.”

Scott makes a noise of distress in the back of his throat. “You really think it’s that bad?”

“I don’t know, man,” Stiles says, his words muffled slightly because his face is mashed up against his math textbook. “But she wouldn’t start this morning. Like, _at all_. So I think it’s looking pretty dire.”

“And you don’t think a mechanic can fix it?” Allison asks, and the genuine sympathy in her voice almost halfway makes up for her lack of faith in his romantic prowess.

“Maybe,” Stiles wheezes, holding six textbooks with one arm while the other tries to reach for the blue biro he can _just_ see, way down in the bottom corner of his locker. “It’d probably cost some serious dosh, though. I doubt I’d have the cash to cover it. I’d probably have to dip into my college fund, which I was kind of hoping to not have to do until, you know, _college_.”

“I can help pay for it. I can ask for some extra shifts from Deaton,” Scott offers, nodding earnestly, because Scott is the best bro to ever bro and he knows just how much the Jeep means to Stiles.

“Dude, no,” Stiles says, popping just his head back out of his locker. He’s practically standing inside it now. “I mean, thank you, really, but I can’t ask you to do that.” Mainly because he knows that Scott really would do it, without a second’s hesitation.

“But you love that car!” Scott says, his sad puppy face out in full force.

“Yeah,” Stiles sighs. “I do.”

And right then is when Stiles is finally able to curl his fingers around the elusive pen. He crows with delight and pulls himself out of his locker, whirling around with the pen clutched triumphantly in his raised fist.

His raised fist that collides with something else. Hard.

And yet also squishy.

There’s a choked off yelp to his left and a collective gasp from the rest of the corridor. This is not good.

Scott and Allison’s horrified expressions are _really_ not good.

The blood Stiles finds on his knuckles when he pulls his hand back is very, _very bad_.

Stiles’ stomach sinks faster than Jack Dawson into the North Atlantic when he turns to find Derek Hale clutching both hands over his nose, red dribbling down his chin.

Derek Hale. Camaro driving Derek Hale. Captain of just about every single sports team Derek Hale. Unexpected yet unsurprising star of the debate team Derek Hale. Most talked about guy in school (much to Jackson’s chagrin) Derek Hale.

 _That_ Derek Hale. Stiles just punched. In the face.

Stiles’ hand, which is attached to Stiles’ body. Just made bone crunching contact. With Derek Hale’s face.

Nobody moves. Stiles isn’t even sure if he is _capable_ of moving. It’s like he’s stuck in this gruesome tableau of everyone staring in scandalized fascination while he gapes at Derek. Who is cradling his head in his hands. And bleeding.

_Fuck._

The bell rings.

Stiles flees for his life.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles looks up into Derek Hale’s frowny face.  
> “Oh my God, I’m really sorry, please don’t kill me!” he yelps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy crapoly you guys, the response to the first chapter was amazing! i was honestly not expecting that from a very first fic in a new fandom, so i was completely blown away. thank you so much to all the lovely people who left kudos and super sweet comments, you're all fantastic and i hope you have amazing weeks!
> 
> just a short disclaimer: i have absolutely no clue how american high schools work nor do i use american-english, so if there's anything in this fic that's so completely off-base it's laughable, please please please let me know. also, for some unknown reason my spell-check stopped checking, so i'm really sorry if my spelling is a bit all over the place. it's entirely possible i made up new words.

Stiles is _dead_. Dead meat. Dead man walking. Deadmau5. Stiles is so far gone that he’s practically _beyond_ dead. He’s a zombie, or a vampire, or a draugr, or some other such creature of the night. Stiles is… Stiles is fast losing track of this analogy to be quite honest. The crux of the matter is that Stiles is screwed. Stiles is _fucked_. And not in the way that he would like to be fucked because, yep, he’s still a virgin. And he’s about to _die_ a virgin because _he just punched Derek Hale in the face._

There was a nose and knuckles and broken capillaries, and no matter how accidental and unintentional it was, nothing is going to change the fact that he, career nobody Stiles Stilinski, just punched Derek _freaking captain of the lacrosse team_ Hale right in the schnoz.

Unprovoked.

In front of witnesses.

With camera phones.

So. Thus ends the sorry state of affairs jokingly known as his life.

Because he is dead. Or he will be. Just as soon as Derek or one of his cronies pummels Stiles into the freshly waxed, standard-issue school flooring.

So far, that hasn’t happened yet. Mainly because Stiles booked it to class like the hounds of hell themselves were nipping at his heels.

At the moment Stiles is trying to hide himself behind a looseleaf worksheet he found on the floor, because his textbook, notebook, and backpack are all still sitting forgotten inside his locker. His locker… which was left wide open for any old douchcanoe to plunder. Because Stiles didn’t close it in his haste to run far, far away. _Great_. Hopefully Scott is present enough in reality and not too wrapped up in Allison to shut it before some jerk-off decides to steal his gym clothes and hide them inside the chest freezer in the Home Ec. room.

In fact, because the universe is a truly ironic bastard, the only item Stiles successfully managed to bring to class with him was his pen. His stupid fucking, Derek-maiming pen.

Fortunately, Stiles doesn’t share his first period calculus class with Derek or any of his friends, so Stiles is cautiously optimistic of his continued survival until at least second period. Unfortunately, that doesn’t prevent nearly every other kid from stopping and staring at him as they enter the classroom. Because _of course_ the entire freaking school already knows what happened two whole minutes ago. That’s how fast the BHHS grapevine works. Like wildfire. Like wild grapevine fires.

Stiles hunkers down further in his seat and stares determinedly at the differentiation equations about two inches from his nose.

He passes the period in this way, focusing all of his attention on his work and studiously avoiding eye contact with everyone. It’s surprising actually, how much Stiles can get done with imminent death looming over him like a black shadow. He’s productive like he never has been before, and when he finishes the set problems before anyone else in the class (Lydia looking shocked and vaguely outraged) he indulges the idea of pegging a lacrosse ball at Jackson’s head before every major test.

Inside the classroom it feels as though time has been warped. Seconds pass away like the Sheriff typing up an incident report, agonizingly slowly, and yet every time Stiles looks up at the clock the minute hand has moved in leaps and bounds.

He tries his hardest not to relate himself to a prisoner on death-row, because if that were true then his final meal was two pop tarts and an apple and that’s just too pathetic, even by Stiles’ standards.

Even so, when the teacher dismisses his class at the end of the period Stiles has to talk himself into moving from his desk. He takes his time packing his things away (well, at least as much time as one feasibly _can_ take to pocket a single pen) then dawdles to the front of the room. He peeks around the doorframe and, establishing that the coast is mostly clear, ducks his head and slinks into the hallway.

Stiles keeps his face turned towards the floor and his feet moving quickly as he makes a beeline towards his next class. He completely bypasses his locker, reluctant to return to the scene of the crime in case Derek is there, lying in wait until Stiles is alone and vulnerable so he can exact grisly revenge on the very same stretch of linoleum where he was first wronged. It will be poetic. Bloody, yet poetic.

Justice will be served, the universe will realign, the gods will be appeased, and Derek will ride away on a chariot of fire while Stiles lies broken on the cold, hard ground, vacant eyes staring up at his locker, a single blue biro stabbed straight through his hear− oh, hey, look, it’s his Econ classroom.

Stiles is man enough to admit that he nearly cries with relief when he flails through the door to find Scott and Allison already waiting for him.

“Duuude,” Scott breathes, wide-eyed, as soon as he spots Stiles.

Stiles collapses onto his desk and buries his head in his folded arms. Allison reaches across the aisle to pat his hair. A saint, she is, a goddamn _saint_.

“How bad is it?” Stiles asks his elbow. After a few long moments in which no one speaks, he cracks one eye open and peers up at his friends. They’re having a conversation with their eyebrows.

“Oh god,” Stiles moans and goes back to trying to suffocate himself with his own hoodie.

He wishes he were a turtle. That way he could just pull his head in and go home and no one could force him to interact with society ever again.

“Stiles, it’s really not that bad,” Allison says, scratching gently at his scalp.

“It is _that_ bad, man,” Scott says.

Allison’s hand disappears from Stiles' hair and there’s a muffled thump followed immediately by a pained grunt.

Stiles pops his head back up to enjoy Scott’s scrunchy-puppy face.

“Seriously,” Allison insists, turning back to him. “I’m pretty sure it looked worse than it really was. Derek was in first period, so it’s not like you hospitalized him.”

“Yeah,” snorts Scott. “He came _forty minutes late_ to first period with what looked like half a toilet roll stuck up his nose and eyes that wouldn’t stop watering.”

Allison twists up her mouth and doesn’t deny it. Stiles whimpers.

“And dude,” Scott continues, “you know I know it was an accident. And I’ll always have your back ‘cause you’re my best bro for life yo.” He even does the hand gesture they made up when they were twelve and still believed they had a chance in hell of being gangsta. Bless him. “But man, you totally dipped out. Like, you didn’t even apologize. Kinda not cool.”

Stiles whines. Loudly. Like some sort of injured canine.

“I know. I _know_ , okay? And I am sorry. _Really freaking sorry_. But I just panicked and my fight-or-flight response kicked in and it was less of the fight and more of the board-a-rocketship-to-the-moon kind of reaction.”

Scott will understand. Scott was the one who ferried PB&J sandwiches back and forth when Stiles was ten and hid inside his treehouse for two days after accidentally breaking three of his dad’s cruiser windows.

Scott smiles gently and shakes his head like he’s remembering The Cruiser Incident too. He probably is. There’re just some quantities of peanut butter that are too large to ever forget.

“You still need to apologize to Derek, bro.”

“And I totally will,” Stiles agrees, nodding. “In written form. Via carrier pigeon. Or carrier puppy?” He gives Scott his best pleading face.

Scott appears unmoved. Damn him.

“You’ll do it in person,” Scott says firmly, like he thinks he’s some kind of alpha wolf instead of Scrappy Doo. Stiles blames Allison. Ever since those two got together Scott’s confidence has increased tenfold, and Stiles would love it if it didn’t mean that it’s been getting harder and harder to talk Scott into doing dumb things with him. Or for him. (But really, Stiles is so freaking proud of Scott 2.0, because now everyone is finally seeing just how awesome Scott has always been.)

Coach Finstock chooses that moment to come barrelling into the room, chest puffed out and eyes more manic than usual, and Stiles’ protests are lost in the inane ramblings of a genuinely certifiable crazy person.

In third period Chemistry, Stiles is momentarily distracted from impending doom by Mr Harris being an incorrigible asshole. Seriously, Stiles hadn’t even _done_ anything this time. But then he sees leather in his peripheral vision and has to snap his mouth shut before his heart can beat right out of it.

Erica Reyes and Isaac Lahey come sauntering into the lab as if Beacon Hills High School and everyone in it are ten miles beneath them. Which wouldn’t be any different from normal procedure, except that today both of their gazes zero in on Stiles like tiny heat seeking missiles.

It’s really kind of pants-wettingly terrifying.

They brush past him en route to their own seats and Stiles does not miss the way Erica’s fingernails trail along the edge of his desk, long and sharp, like miniature fuchsia claws.

Although he’s never actually been threatened before (Jackson’s bi-weekly promise of bodily harm notwithstanding) and therefore he’s got no control to measure against, Stiles is pretty sure he’s never met anyone more subtly menacing than Erica. He can physically _feel_ her glaring holes into the back of his head all lesson and it’s got him sweating bullets. Scott keeps shooting him these worried looks and even _Mr Harris_ pauses just slightly in his droning when his eyes land on Stiles. But of course, due to the aforementioned assholery, he ignores Stiles’ suffering completely.

Stiles is up and out of the room before the end of period bell has even finished ringing.

He skips gym altogether, because he shares that class with Isaac, Boyd, _and_ Derek and the locker room is exactly the kind of place three jocks would commit homicide. Stiles does not want the last thing he ever sees to be Jackson Whittemore in a jockstrap.

Lunch finds Stiles sitting on the floor in the library, way back in the stacks, ensconced between shelves of dead poets and praying that he won’t soon be joining them in the afterlife. He’s actually kind of marvelling at the fact that he’s survived unscathed for this long, and he’s willing to bargain with any deity that will listen for his luck to continue. He just needs it to last until he gets home and can petition his Dad to move to Mexico.

But on the off chance that his Dad says yes, his luck will then have to stretch until he can petition Mrs McCall to let Scott move to Mexico too, because Stiles can’t live without Scott. And then he’ll have to convince Mr and Mrs Argent to let Allison move to Mexico as well, because Scott can’t live without Allison. And then Allison will probably want Lydia to come and wherever Lydia goes, Jackson follows like some kind of oversized, pitiful duckling and then Danny will probably also want to tag along, because Mexico is sunny year-round and the world deserves to see Danny Mahealani constantly shirtless, and this is all starting to seem like more than his luck will allow for.

Maybe he should try and save time by petitioning Mr and Mrs Hale to make _Derek_ move to Mexico. But that seems like it might involve actually going to the Hale house. And Derek will likely be at the Hale house, seeing as he is a Hale and that is his house. Which means that Stiles would very likely be eaten before he could talk to Mr and Mrs Hale about the Mexico plan.

He’s in the middle of devising an elaborate scheme in which Scott creates a diversion using a dead deer and claims of a mountain lion attack, giving Stiles enough time to sneak into the Hale house without Derek around, when he becomes aware of a figure lurking at the end of the row.

Stiles looks up into Derek Hale’s frowny face.

“Oh my God, I’m really sorry, please don’t kill me!” Stiles yelps.

The only indication that Derek has even heard Stiles is the further furrowing of his eyebrows. But those eyebrows tell him more than enough. If the saying goes that a picture paints a thousand words, well then Derek should name is left eyebrow Picasso and his right eyebrow van Gough because his murderous intent is coming across _loud and clear._

“No, you’re right,” Stiles croaks. “Begging is futile. All I ask is that you make it quick and tell my dad I loved him.” He hangs his head in resignation, waiting for the pain.

There’s a huff and the scuffing sound of boots on carpet. Stiles tenses.

“I’m not going to kill you, Stiles,” Derek says, managing to sound both highly amused and terminally bored at the same time. How does he do that?

But then the words actually register in Stiles’ brain and he snaps his head back up to stare wide-eyed at Derek.

“You know my name?” he asks incredulously.

This time Derek arches a brow at him and Stiles thinks he might need to reconsider his artists. Is there a painter known for being particularly sassy? Frida Kahlo, maybe?

“Do I know the name of the guy who assaulted me in the hallway?” Derek drawls with enough sarcasm that Stiles is reluctantly impressed. (Who is he even kidding, Stiles is _always_ impressed when it comes to Derek Hale.) “Yes, Stiles. I know your name.”

“Oh.” Stiles doesn’t actually know what to say now. He hadn’t really planned beyond a final plea for mercy and then a swift death. He looks at Derek’s face instead.

He can’t help but wince in sympathy. Derek’s nose is red and swollen looking, faint bruises already developing under both eyes, and there’s a small spot of dried blood under his right nostril. Guilt makes Stiles’ stomach churn.

“I really am _so sorry_ , dude,” Stiles says. “It wasn’t on purpose, I swear. I’m kind of not in control of my own limbs 95% of the time.”

Derek snorts. Then he flinches and grimaces as a glob of congealed blood droops out of his nose.

Stiles tries not to gag because it’s entirely his fault in the first place. He scrabbles around in his backpack for his pocket-sized pack of tissues and then hastily offers one to Derek, who takes it with a grunt. He sits on the floor next to Stiles and cleans himself up.

“Are you absolutely certain you don’t want to rough me up a bit?” Stiles asks dubiously. “Because honestly I wouldn’t blame you.”

Derek looks at Stiles through thick, dark lashes and Stiles feels a warm kind of fuzziness expanding behind his ribcage.

Which is concerning because there’s a mostly red tissue still hanging from Derek’s fingers and that should definitely not be attractive. But Stiles can’t really find it in himself to care.

Derek heaves an exasperated sigh. It’s a common reaction to Stiles. “Yes, Stiles, I am 100% positive that I don’t want to kill you, or injure you, or give you a wedgie, or anything else you’ve dreamed up in that head of yours,” he says flatly. “I just want to talk to you.”

Stiles leans away from him. “Talk to me as in how the Mob would want to ‘talk’ to someone?”

“ _Stiles_.”

“Sorry, sorry, go on!”

Derek huffs and then his eyebrows squash up together again, like he’s thinking carefully about what he’s going to say next. “I couldn’t help overhearing what you were talking about. This morning, I mean, in the hallway, before…” He trails off.

“Before I punched you in the face,” Stiles supplies helpfully.

Derek gives him a _look_. Stiles holds up his hands, palms facing outwards. Derek is right, he shouldn’t be pushing his really quite frankly amazing luck.

“Yes. Before you punched me in the face, you were talking about your Jeep, right? How it died?”

With all the teen-angsting that had taken up the majority of his day, Stiles had totally forgotten about the untimely demise of his baby.

“Yeah,” he replies glumly. “I think she’s gone for good this time.”

“My sister owns her own garage?” Derek says, very quickly. He kind of blurts it out.

Stiles is a little bit startled. Also confused. “That’s, um. Is that a question?”

Derek makes a low, growly noise in the back of his throat and rolls his eyes. He also looks a tiny bit pink at the tips of his ears, but that’s probably just the library’s dim lighting.

“No, it’s not a question,” he grits.

“Are you sure? Because it sounded like a question, what with how your intonation went up at the end there. I don’t think you understand how punctuation works and–”

Derek glares. Stiles shuts up.

Derek’s glare sort of turns into a stare, and Stiles tries his very hardest not to fidget. Which means he immediately scratches the back of his neck but sue him, he’s got no idea what’s happening right now.

Derek snaps out of whatever funk he was in and clears his throat. “I mean, my sister’s a mechanic, and she owns a garage in town, and you know…” Stiles does not know. It must show on his face. “She could take a look at your Jeep. See if there’s any way to fix it.”

“Oh. _Oh!_ ” Stiles should probably stop calling himself the smart one of his group. “Oh, dude, thank you, it’s really nice of you to let me know that, but if you heard that conversation then you already know I don’t really have the money to cover repairs.”

“Yeah, no, I know,” Derek continues awkwardly. “But she’d probably do it for cheap if it was for one of my friends.”

Stiles gapes. He’s stunned. His gob is smacked, and his flabber is gasted, and his bam is boozled.

“I’m your friend!?” he squeaks.

Derek starts glaring again. “Do you want cheap car parts or not?”

“I’m totally your friend! Your best friend! We’re complete bosom buddies!”

Derek tries to scowl, and while his eyebrows are very convincing, there’s this tick at the corner of his mouth that lets Stiles know he’s hiding a smile.

“But, dude, I just…” Stiles is getting confused again, because this is so far from what he was expecting to happen when Derek inevitably tracked him down and it’s not really adding up inside his brain. “Why are you being so nice to me? I literally made you bleed less than five hours ago.”

Derek shrugs. “I was going to offer before you smacked me in the face.”

As lovely as that sentiment is, it doesn’t really answer Stiles' question. Because Stiles and Derek _aren’t_ friends, they barely interact at all. Derek is a jock and Stiles is (not) a nerd and that’s just the way things are. And Stiles is used to it. As much as he might surreptitiously watch Derek from across the cafeteria, or seek him out in the halls, or hang off of every single eloquent argument he makes in English, and wish things were different, he can live with the status quo.

But what’s happening right now, _whatever the fuck_ is happening right now, is totally fucking up the status quo. 

And Stiles just doesn’t understand _why_.

“But,” he stammers, “why?”

Derek shrugs again. “Because I want to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i literally just got onto [tumblr](http://www.mermaid-reyes.tumblr.com) and i have no idea what i'm doing, but feel free to come say hi!


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